Page 42 of The Assist
“I didn’t invite you over,” I mutter, but I close the door anyway.
“Didn’t need an invite. I felt the disturbance in the force.” He plops down on the couch and starts unpacking boxes of chips and curry like he lives here. “You didn’t show up for pub night. Jacko’s convinced you’ve joined a cult.”
I sink into the armchair across from him, rubbing the back of my neck. “Maybe I have.”
Murphy cracks open a beer and tosses me one. “So, are you gonna tell me what’s got you brooding like Heathcliff on a bender, or do I have to guess?” He pops a handful of chips into his mouth and begins to chew.
I don’t answer. I take a long pull from the can and let the silence stretch. Murphy just watches me, waiting for me to spill my guts to him.
And because Murphy’s annoying like that; patient, perceptive, and insufferably persistent, I finally cave.
“I nearly kissed her.” He doesn’t need me to say who.
“Shit,” he says softly, then nods like that confirms something he already suspected. “In the treatment room?”
I look up. “Youknew?”
“Mate, I saw you come out of there looking like you’d run a marathon through a minefield. You had that post-almost-sex-glow crossed with full-on existential panic. Wasn’t hard to connect the dots.”
I lean forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. “It wasn’t planned. I didn’t go in there hell bent on kissing her. I just wanted to check on her. She’d messaged me about having a rough morning, and I don’t know, I needed to see her face. Make sure she was okay.”
“And then you nearly snogged it off?”
I shoot him a warning look. But he just shrugs, unbothered by my silent threat.
“It wasn’t just a kiss,” I say, quieter. “It felt like more.”
Murphy doesn’t joke that time. He sets his food down and looks at me properly. “And that’s what’s got you like this.”
I nod.
“Because more is dangerous.” Man, he’s perceptive.
“Because morehurts.” The words come out before I can stop them, and suddenly I’m on my feet, pacing. The walls feel too close. Everything does.
“I’ve done casual,” I say, voice low, strained. “That’s easy. Fun. Forgettable. But Mia’s not…she’s not someone you forget. She’s someone whostays. And I don’t know if I can do that. If I canbethat.”
Murphy leans back, sipping his beer. “Because of your dad.”
I freeze and the air in the room shifts.
“You think he didn’t want you,” Murphy says, not unkindly. “That he couldn’t handle your success because it reminded him of everything he didn’t get. And somewhere along the way, you started believing thatyouwere the problem. That loving you came with conditions.”
My jaw tightens. “I didn’t ask for psychoanalysis.”
“Tough shit. Comes free with the beer.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “He’s never been to a game I’ve played in right from being six years old. Not a single one. Then I got scouted, started winning trophies, and he was still ‘too busy.’ Wouldn’t talk to me after playoffs. Didn’t show up when I got called to nationals. Just ignored every damn thing.”
Murphy doesn’t interrupt. He knows the rhythm of this part; when to speak, when to shut up.
“I kept thinking if I just played harder, did better he’dcome around. Like maybe he just needed to see I was worth it. That I earned his pride.”
“And Mia’s wrapped up in that mess now too.”
I nod. “I look at her and I want everything. All at once. But I can’t shake this fear that I’ll screw it up. That I’ll want too much from her, or need too much. That she’ll wake up one day and realise I’m not worth the effort.”
Murphy is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “That’s not love, mate. That’s trauma.”
